Another Day
by athenasdragon
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a brush with death when he goes a while without sleeping during a case. Watson is not amused. BROTP. Brief blood.


It was always difficult for me to tell when Holmes was stretched thin. After all, he seemed to be in a continuous state of self-enforced hunger when he was on a case. His irritability was almost reassuring in its constancy.

I will never forget the night, however, when it all finally became too much.

The details of the case are too twisted and disturbing for a short tale such as I intend this to be; suffice it to say that a man had been abusing his daughter in the most terrible of ways. Holmes and I finally managed to corner him on the banks of the Thames when his getaway boat failed to arrive.

My friend might have gloated at his victory had he not been so full of rage. His grey eyes flashed like steel in the last rays of evening light and he brandished my army pistol in one of his wiry arms. "Give it up, Robinson!" he snarled, and I was once again reminded of a determined hound on a hunt.

Robinson shuffled in the loose, damp stones at the edge of the river. His eyes darted between myself and Holmes as he realized his role as the cornered prey. Finally, his arms dropped to his sides and he ducked his head, submissive. "Very well Mr. Holmes. I will come with you."

Robinson slunk up the bank towards us as Holmes halfway lowered his weapon, a fraction of the tension leaving his form. What happened next was almost too rapid for me to comprehend: the vile man spun as he passed Holmes, lashing out with his foot and hand in one movement. Holmes tried to jump out of the way but both strikes found their mark. He stumbled a step backwards before tumbling into the river.

"Holmes!" I cried, and by the time the sound had left my lips my friend had disappeared beneath the sinuous water and Robinson had darted off into the shadows.

A spray of crimson on the rocks where Holmes had been standing immediately alerted me to the fact that Robinson had been wielding a blade of some sort. I shed my overcoat and tore the shoes from my feet. "Holmes!" I called again, searching the dark water downstream.

I followed the edge of the water at a jog, searching beneath the surface for any movement. It was only after I splashed into the shallows that his pale hand breached the surface, clawing as though it might find purchase in the cool, smoky air. I grasped it firmly and pulled.

Holmes's choking, gasping form emerged before me. His first motion was to hold firmly to my shoulders so that he would not sink back into the water, which swirled just above my knees. I put a supporting arm against his back and guided him to the shore.

Despite the fact that he was leaning heavily on me, Holmes pushed away and began scrabbling up the bank in pursuit of Robinson. Before he had made it more than a few steps, however, he sank to the ground with a groan and a muttered stream of multilingual profanity.

"Holmes!" I said again, the blood on the bank still fresh in my mind. "Let me see."

He sat back with a burning glare. Through a slash in his waistcoat I could see a long, shallow cut. Relief flooded through me.

"Where did he kick you?" I asked brusquely, ducking down to examine the wound.

After coughing several times, Holmes gestured to his hip and grimaced. "Painful but harmless." And painful it must have been, for his other hand was balled into a white-knuckled fist.

"Come along," I urged, pulling him up by his shoulder. He hissed sharply but did not otherwise protest, and even pushed away from me to hobble along by himself. "We need to get back to Baker Street so I can clean the cut properly."

"We must—apprehend—Robinson!" Holmes growled through gritted teeth.

"Holmes!" I grabbed my friend's arm to hold him back. "You are injured!"

"If I had not lowered my guard I would not be so!" he burst.

"Perhaps if you had slept more than an hour in the last week," I bit back, "you would not have lowered your guard. If you won't sleep of your own free will," I added, "I have no problem sedating you."

Holmes turned away from me, ostensibly defeated, but I saw the wry smile at the corner of his mouth. "Very well, Watson. To Baker Street it is. I'm sure Lestrade's men will find the man, and his daughter is safe for the moment."

Mollified, I offered him an arm, which he leaned on gratefully. "I hope that this shows you that it is important to maintain yourself, even when you're on a case," I insisted. He did not respond. "You put yourself in real danger."

"I'm flattered by your concern, Watson," he said eventually, and I thought that there was sincerity somewhere beneath the dry humor. "I will take your medical opinion into consideration."

"Please do," I responded, matching his tone. "Oh dear."

"What?"

"Well," I said hesitantly, "you're dripping blood and river water. I'm not sure if any cab will take us."

There was a brief silence before Holmes's loud laughter rang out. Considering the gash on his ribs it must have been painful, but the sound brought a smile to my face.

There will always be another day to catch the villain, my dear reader, but there may not always be another day with Sherlock Holmes. I know where my priorities lie.


End file.
